


Don't Hear The Bell But You Answer The Call

by meratrishoslee



Series: Seven Minutes Wherever [3]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: COVID-19, Coronavirus, M/M, self-quarantine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 18:40:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23221873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meratrishoslee/pseuds/meratrishoslee
Summary: "Angel, I thought we were in quarantine..."
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Seven Minutes Wherever [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1441339
Comments: 35
Kudos: 90





	Don't Hear The Bell But You Answer The Call

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the current situation, and on this post: ["They're worried for us."](https://wheeloffortune-design.tumblr.com/post/613046810326515712)
> 
> In the "Seven Minutes Wherever" universe, this would be during the 2.5 years after the Near-Apocalypse Experience prior to most of the events of Seven Minutes of Eternity.

"Angel, I thought we were in quarantine."

Aziraphale picked up another book; holding it in one nitrile-gloved hand he spritzed the cover lightly with the plant-mister he held in the other. Then he wiped it dry with a clean paper towel.

(Although it was conspicuously labeled "sanitizer" it was nothing more than water, regular water at that -- but of course each codex so treated was blessed immaculately germ-free.)

"You know we can't **get** anything, dearest. And besides, I've been here to serve my community through every single outbreak of every pestilence great or small since Queen Victoria."

"What community?" muttered Crowley, peering over the rims of his sunglasses at the barren streets. It was hard to recognize London in this state: as if every living human being had been Raptured, unlikely though it might be. At least the pigeons in their regular bastardy stalked the alleys and invaded bins. 

Some things were truly eternal.

Still the seraph continued, one book at a time, playing the role of conspicuous hygiene to the abandoned crosswalks.

"They'll be here as soon as we're gone inside. You'll see through the windows." As he set each book back down into the wooden cart he made sure that the title on their spine was visible. You wouldn't even have to touch them in order to browse. 

"It just seems... so futile. Is there nothing more we can do for them?"

The round face so beloved to him maintained its serenity as Aziraphale worked. "Not without drawing animosity towards ourselves from our former Hosts, you know that. You've heard the whispers from both sides, as have I -- this is one of Those Things. It may even be ineffable -- who knows? Humankind does seem to grow from adversity, after all."

"Like orchids, those masochistic little... " The crossing persisted with its strange non-populated status and the flesh on the back of Crowley's neck crawled. "I don't get how you can stay so calm, when people all around us are getting sick and dying."

"I am calm only because I am doing something right now **to _help_** , the only way that I may."

"But this isn't food or water; it's not masks nor soap nor even loo roll! How much could it possibly make a difference for them now?"

Aziraphale handed the mister to his mate, gathering up the bag of discarded paper towels and the diminished roll; his other hand gripped the demon's elbow and steered him gently but firmly back inside. 

"This is just as important as food," he answered softly. "This will feed their souls."

The door to the bookstore shut tight. The large wooden cart sat at an angle to the crossing, supremely unattended -- and on its other side hung a large hand-lettered poster board that read "BORROW WHAT YOU WISH. RETURN IT WHEN YOU CAN."

Crowley's hands had nothing else to do; they slithered down Aziraphale's rounded sides and clasped in their accustomed place over his soft middle. The angel snuggled back against him.

Through the window by the desk they watched, unseen.

And -- mirabile dictu! -- the mortals did slowly emerge. From side streets and distant buildings they ventured forth in ones and twos as if summoned by name, careful to maintain a two-meter distance between each set, forming a loose queue that led to the cart on the threshold. 

There each person scanned the raised spines quickly and quietly and, each finding a book that seemed meant just for them, picked it up while touching no others and melted away back into the quiet early spring afternoon.

"Tomorrow I'll put out a basket for the returns, so that I can clean them before putting them away -- or putting them back out."

Crowley nodded and said nothing, studying each human face: every gender, every color, every age. He watched as each one came to the little renegade library... and found something in it worth taking back into their isolation.

_"For we who grew up tall and proud_  
_In the shadow of the Mushroom Cloud_  
_Convinced our voices can't be heard_  
_We just wanna scream it louder and louder and louder..."_

He reached out his mind to the plants in the window boxes, to the trees at the park down the street, to the grass in the distant roundabout medians.

 _Alright you little shits_ , he thought. _If you can hear me, I need you to oxygenate just as hard as you can. This thing goes after their lungs? Then we're gonna give them as much clean air as we can to breathe..._

**Author's Note:**

> Orchids are masochistic, somewhat, in that if they don't feel properly "threatened" they won't produce blooms. So sometimes you have to repot them or give them some mild cold weather or even just bang the sides of their pot -- I can't find a source on that last one now but I remember reading it somewhere on The Internets a long time ago. 
> 
> (Crowley once had an orchid that bloomed outrageously when he screamed at it. Like, to an inappropriate level. (So now if you imagine an orchid basically saying "Spank me Daddy!" to Crowley, my work here is done.) He eventually started to feel a bit weird about it and wound up giving it away to a local collector, with an admonition to "treat it kindly".)
> 
> I promise everyone still subscribed that I'm getting back to writing, and the Current Unpleasantness will hopefully create some quiet time in which to do that. I had a surprise house-move over the holidays, running from a pair of abusers, experienced a massive resurgence of my childhood C-PTSD, wound up disowning/disowned from the remaining entire side of my family of origin... I feel a lot of kinship with Aziraphale and Crowley now, being Cast Out from both sides.
> 
> (A word to the wise: If you have a narcissist in your family, don't help them. Ever. Narcissistic abusers don't get better with therapy -- they just learn the right words and attitude to draw you in again. They're the reason why "no good deed goes unpunished" is a thing. And if you have two narcissists in your family that are heavily enmeshed with each other, be prepared at any time to have to "divorce" them both and RUN like you're being chased by the Hosts.)
> 
> And then just as I'm starting to breathe again and locate my socks and get a routine and feel more like my normal creative self... *gestures all around*
> 
> So when I saw that work of art, I found an outlet for all the feelings, and a way to tell y'all I'm still alive.
> 
> More soon, hopefully. Take care of each other, and of yourselves. Love you all.


End file.
